The Dreamcatcher Expedition

Sunday, September 17, 2006

The Monster, the Miss

We wrestle daily with a monster so much older and wiser than we that I can do naught but give every paddle stroke my all and then some as I repeatedly die tiny, insignificant deaths of exhaustion and stare out at her million gallon per.. per what? Hour? Minute? Second? At her movement, her pulse downward to the sea. I am nothing to this river. I am flotsam.

First it was following her as she crossed lakes bigger than seas. Frank says due to the curvature of the Earth, we cannot see land across a 7-mile lake. We crossed such lakes in rain and high swells driven by wind. Then came the meanders, endless loopdiloops where you just knew the river was near touching itself across some road or spit of land, but necessity and the heavy load of gear made paddling, not portaging (in this case skipping) the only choice. Thus no choice. Meander. Thru forest divine yet endless, thru pasture soiled and stunk up by cattle, meander.

Now it's width and record low rains. Result: ankle deep water a mile wide that often as not makes you get out and walk, and rocks to tear up a canoe or hang you up, spin you sideways and wow! suddenly there IS a current and she's all too willing to swamp you - gear, Snoopy dog Clyde, backpacks with your very "home" inside of tent, bag, pad, dry clothes. Not an option.

Now its wind. Wind gusts up to 40 mph, perhaps more, blow at us head on. A small tornado in the area claims the life of a 10-year old girl, splintering her large suburban home. We sleep in tents a few miles upriver. Fate is whimsical.

Waves break over the bow as we dart from the lee (shelter) of one headland and, with a "Ready? Go!" paddle 150 hard strokes fast as we can to attain the opposite shore and another lee before the wind-driven swells can swamp us. It's madness. It's unbridled freedom. It's joy and intense pain, and best of all it's real. But it hurts, and every night that I lay my broken body down to sleep, I pray for twice the value in rest as hours until dawn. -RSM

PS: Who is Emile Durkheim (sp?) and why does Zack the bartender compare me to him?
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